if you drive by after last call, you’re liable to see somebody peeing in the bushes. Neither offer a great first date setting.
“But it isn’t a date,” Andie says aloud. She rests her hand on a black dress that has spaghetti straps and an open back. It’s the nicest thing she’s brought, and just for a second she thinks about wearing it. Then she pictures the expression on Cort’s face and reluctantly leaves it on the hanger.
Instead, she settles on a dressed-up version of her regular jeans and T-shirt. She pulls on a straight denim skirt that falls just below her knees, wiggles into a black tank top, and drapes a black cotton sweater over her shoulders.
The phone rings and Andie has half a mind to ignore it. At Evenfall, there’s only one phone jack, and it’s in the kitchen. There have been a half dozen calls this week, and every time Andie has scrambled to answer it, only to find no one there. Her cell phone is useless in the States, and she hasn’t bothered to pick up another one, since there’s no one here for her to call, at least until she starts sending out her CV. But then it occurs to her that the caller could be Cort, so she races down the stairs in her bare feet. The phone is on its eighth ring when, breathless, she lifts the receiver, only to hear the line go dead.
“Hello?” she says anyway. “Hello?”
There’s no answer, just the faint buzzing of the line.
“Asshole,” Andie says to no one in particular, then hangs up. She glances at the kitchen clock as she walks out the door, automatically calculating the time in Italy. Almostmidnight. If she were there, she and Neal would be going to bed, sleepy after a bottle or two of red wine. Loneliness floods her in a wave, making it hard to breathe. She leans her forehead against the cool hallway wall, then pulls back, startled. There’s a faint humming noise. She leans in again and listens. Nothing. There must be a hive somewhere, she thinks, pushing thoughts of Neal away as she climbs the stairs.
The bedroom’s ancient mirror hangs over the bureau, and when Andie gazes into it her reflection is wavy, as if she’s peering through water. She frowns, and her image scowls back, an angry mer-twin. She rifles through the top drawer of the bureau until she finds the earrings she bought last year in Rome, tiny pearls set inside circles of silver. Smooth and cool in her palm, the earrings are almost weightless. She puts them on and looks again, twisting her hair up with one hand into an easy knot. Better.
Shoes are the only thing left to decide, and that should be easy. Her mules are right in front of the closet. She’s reaching for them when she catches sight of a pair of black spiky heels, thrown near the back with her hiking boots. The toes of the shoes are open, and the straps wrap around her calves almost to the knees.
Neal called them her “fuck-me shoes,” since whenever she wore them that’s what they ended up doing, hurrying home from whatever club or party they’d been to, stopping only to press against each other in the dark, twisting alleys that led to her flat. She tries not to think about the last time she wore them, the cool night air, his hands under the thinfabric of her shirt…She puts the shoes down, then picks them up again. She’s still hesitating when she hears Cort’s truck bumping down the driveway.
By the time she’s laced them up and made it down the stairs, he’s cut the engine. The kitchen window is open, and from her place in the hall she can hear the car door slam, then the soft pad of footsteps on the walk. He’s whistling softly, something that could be Bruce Springsteen, she’s not sure. She feels silly suddenly, like a teenager waiting for her boyfriend, her pulse thumping in her ears as if she’s been running.
Even though she’s expecting it, his knock on the door makes her jump, and a strand of hair falls across her face. She brushes it away irritably. She’s just about had it with herself and
“But it isn’t a date,” Andie says aloud. She rests her hand on a black dress that has spaghetti straps and an open back. It’s the nicest thing she’s brought, and just for a second she thinks about wearing it. Then she pictures the expression on Cort’s face and reluctantly leaves it on the hanger.
Instead, she settles on a dressed-up version of her regular jeans and T-shirt. She pulls on a straight denim skirt that falls just below her knees, wiggles into a black tank top, and drapes a black cotton sweater over her shoulders.
The phone rings and Andie has half a mind to ignore it. At Evenfall, there’s only one phone jack, and it’s in the kitchen. There have been a half dozen calls this week, and every time Andie has scrambled to answer it, only to find no one there. Her cell phone is useless in the States, and she hasn’t bothered to pick up another one, since there’s no one here for her to call, at least until she starts sending out her CV. But then it occurs to her that the caller could be Cort, so she races down the stairs in her bare feet. The phone is on its eighth ring when, breathless, she lifts the receiver, only to hear the line go dead.
“Hello?” she says anyway. “Hello?”
There’s no answer, just the faint buzzing of the line.
“Asshole,” Andie says to no one in particular, then hangs up. She glances at the kitchen clock as she walks out the door, automatically calculating the time in Italy. Almostmidnight. If she were there, she and Neal would be going to bed, sleepy after a bottle or two of red wine. Loneliness floods her in a wave, making it hard to breathe. She leans her forehead against the cool hallway wall, then pulls back, startled. There’s a faint humming noise. She leans in again and listens. Nothing. There must be a hive somewhere, she thinks, pushing thoughts of Neal away as she climbs the stairs.
The bedroom’s ancient mirror hangs over the bureau, and when Andie gazes into it her reflection is wavy, as if she’s peering through water. She frowns, and her image scowls back, an angry mer-twin. She rifles through the top drawer of the bureau until she finds the earrings she bought last year in Rome, tiny pearls set inside circles of silver. Smooth and cool in her palm, the earrings are almost weightless. She puts them on and looks again, twisting her hair up with one hand into an easy knot. Better.
Shoes are the only thing left to decide, and that should be easy. Her mules are right in front of the closet. She’s reaching for them when she catches sight of a pair of black spiky heels, thrown near the back with her hiking boots. The toes of the shoes are open, and the straps wrap around her calves almost to the knees.
Neal called them her “fuck-me shoes,” since whenever she wore them that’s what they ended up doing, hurrying home from whatever club or party they’d been to, stopping only to press against each other in the dark, twisting alleys that led to her flat. She tries not to think about the last time she wore them, the cool night air, his hands under the thinfabric of her shirt…She puts the shoes down, then picks them up again. She’s still hesitating when she hears Cort’s truck bumping down the driveway.
By the time she’s laced them up and made it down the stairs, he’s cut the engine. The kitchen window is open, and from her place in the hall she can hear the car door slam, then the soft pad of footsteps on the walk. He’s whistling softly, something that could be Bruce Springsteen, she’s not sure. She feels silly suddenly, like a teenager waiting for her boyfriend, her pulse thumping in her ears as if she’s been running.
Even though she’s expecting it, his knock on the door makes her jump, and a strand of hair falls across her face. She brushes it away irritably. She’s just about had it with herself and
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